Going for the Goal

by Sara Rider

  He shifted closer, letting his knee rest against hers. “Want another beer?”

  She shook her head, trying to ignore the wave of heat bursting from the spot where their bodies touched. “We should try knocking again. Maybe someone will hear us.” She stood up and banged on the door.

  He was on his feet behind her in less than a second. She didn’t actually hear him stand up, but she could feel the heat of his body radiating behind her, like her nerves were wired to detect him.

  “Your zipper,” he said gruffly. He wrapped one hand around her hip, causing her to suck in her breath, while the other slowly pulled the metal tab up to her nape.

  “Thanks,” she said breathily.

  Instead of letting go, he tightened his hold on her side. It was possessive. Thrilling. “You’ve got freckles all over your shoulders.” His finger ran along her skin like he was tracing a line between the little brown dots.

  “My mom says they’re the devil’s kisses. One for each of my sins.”

  “She’s wrong. I think they’re beautiful.” His whispered words caressed the sensitive skin on her neck like a kiss.

  She shivered and braced her hands on the metal door. How would it feel to let go of her responsibilities just once and act like a normal twenty-one-year-old? One who remembered that parties were supposed to be fun, not high-stakes business meetings. One who had a seriously dangerous attraction to the guy currently setting her skin on fire.

  His hand crept around to her stomach, pulling her closer and making her core feel like a volcano about to explode.

  Her resolve shattered under the weight of her desire. She twisted to face him and ran her hands along his chest, emboldened by the hungry look in his eyes. He dipped his head, and her heart fluttered. She wanted to kiss him. Lose herself in him. She pressed up on her toes to close the distance, anticipation ratcheting in her belly with each disappearing inch of space.

  The door behind them swung open, smacking her square in the butt.

  “Salinger! You made it!”

  She jumped out of Nick’s arms and rubbed her tender butt cheek while he engaged in some sort of secret handshake with the frat boy. Under the weight of her growing embarrassment, the stairwell started to feel uncomfortably small, like the walls were closing in. She wanted to push her way through the two burly guys, grab her stuff, and get the hell out of there. But that would mean reminding Nick of her presence. Right now, she kind of appreciated that her almost-make-out partner had already forgotten she existed.

  Exhaustion won out over embarrassment. “Excuse me,” she muttered, slipping between the door and the other guy’s arm and heading straight into the heart of the pulsing bass to find Turner.

  He was passed out on the floor with an empty vodka bottle still in his hand. Disappointment mixed with relief in her stomach. Parsons would be pissed, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Time to go home.

  She located her coat beneath another girl’s butt on the sofa. The boots, buried in a massive pile of footwear near the front door, took a little longer to find. Nick breezed into the apartment just as she found the left one.

  “The Punisher’s here!” a random voice yelled.

  Oh my god. The guy she had nearly jumped in the stairwell wasn’t just another college jock. He was Nick “the Punisher” Salinger—first-line defenseman for the Minneapolis Warriors and the biggest goon in the NHL. She’d just spent the better part of an hour trapped with one of the top rookies, and instead of acting like a professional, she’d turned into a puck bunny. Her desperate urge to leave amplified a hundred times over. She needed to get out of there.

  “Hey, Jillian, wait up. I never got your phone number.”

  She froze. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  Another guy stepped in front of her, blocking the exit. “Maybe you should give me your number instead,” he slurred. She tried to push past him, but the guy didn’t move. He seized her upper arm, squeezing so tight she yelped.

  “Let her go,” Nick growled.

  “Maybe I don’t want to.”

  The only thing she saw was Nick’s fist flying toward the guy’s face before all hell broke loose.

  2

  PRESENT DAY

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Salinger, but I don’t work with losers.”

  Jillian Nichols kept her face and body as still as an ice princess in winter, showing no sign of the fact that she’d spent the better part of the last ten minutes wondering if he remembered her and the hour they had spent trapped together in a dark stairwell. Doubtful. The only thing he likely remembered from that night was the giant, national-headline-making brawl that nearly cost him his career. Besides, he’d probably had millions of encounters with young female hockey fans over the years, even if the memory had been burned into her brain for almost a decade.

  Nick Salinger’s expression wasn’t angry. Nor did he appear to be stunned that someone had dared insult his greatness. Instead, he reacted like every other warm-blooded man who’d taken one too many hits to the head.

  With an arrogant smirk.

  “I’ve won the James Norris trophy four times. I’ve got two Olympic gold medals, one bronze, and when I was seventeen, my high school voted me least likely to succeed in our yearbook. And most likely to get arrested.”

  “That’s an interesting set of accolades.” She kept her voice level.

  “I’m not only the most successful person to come out of Blades, Minnesota, I’m one of the most successful athletes in the country. And I’ve never been arrested.” He leaned forward and flashed a devilish smile. “At least not for anything that went on my permanent record.”

  None of that changed the fact that he was bad, bad news. She’d followed his career more closely than she’d like to admit and had come to the conclusion that the sweet side she’d seen in him that night was nothing but a facade. Despite being one of the most photographed players in the NHL, he was a brute on and off the ice. That infamous fight had been the last straw before Minneapolis dropped him over his bad attitude. The New York Vipers had picked him up shortly after, and though he’d been with them for almost a decade, his behavior hadn’t gotten any less volatile. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

  “The point is, you can call me a lot of things, sweetheart, but ‘loser’ isn’t one of them.” Salinger leaned back in the leather armchair and set one heavy brown boot on the edge of her desk, followed by the other. The cheap, veneer-topped Ikea desk creaked ominously, tilting subtly to the right.

  He raised his eyebrow, like the shitty state of her office was some kind of secret joke between the two of them. Most of her work was conducted over the phone or over lattes and kale salads at classy bistros. But since that work had yet to make her a millionaire, she saved money by renting a crumbling one-room office in a heritage building in New York’s Lower East Side, investing her spare income on a wardrobe of chic-but-serious business suits and “don’t fuck with me” heels. It wasn’t glamorous, but Nichols Sports Management was hers. Her vision, her methods, her dreams. Just not her decor.

  Which was fine because no one ever came to her office. At least not until ten minutes ago, when Nick Salinger had barged in and demanded she take him on as a client.

  And now he was smirking like there was no doubt in his mind she’d say yes.

  “You represent some decent hockey players in the minor leagues, but none in the NHL. Face it, you need me.”

  Jillian’s blood pressure jumped so high, she could feel her pulse pounding in her veins. She grabbed her favorite crystal Eiffel Tower paperweight and rammed the pointy tip into his left calf.

  “Argh!”

  She allowed the corners of her mouth to twitch upward for the briefest smile when his feet dropped back to the floor with a thud. “I don’t work with assholes, either.” She picked up the contract she’d been frantically working on and tapped
it against her desk, straightening the mess of paper into an organized stack.

  “Feisty,” he said, rubbing the spot on his leg.

  “No. I just don’t have a high tolerance for arrogance and rudeness.”

  He leaned forward, dropping his arms against his thighs, causing his gray Henley to stretch tightly across his broad shoulders. “You sure you’re in the right business?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think I was,” she answered coolly.

  He shrugged a shoulder. “You’re right.”

  She nodded, not caring whether he even realized he’d complimented her. The fact was, female sports agents didn’t get a whole lot of compliments or recognition. She’d take praise where she could get it, intentional or not. Even when it came from an alpha-hole hockey star.

  “I’ll admit I’m a jerk, but you don’t have to like me. You work with underdogs, misfits, and the athletes that no other agent has the balls to take on. You thrive on chaos. I’m your perfect client.” He flashed her a smile that brought out the full force of his chiseled jaw.

  Dear god, he was a good-looking man who’d only gotten better with age. She sat back in her chair and took in the full sight of him. Nick Salinger had the kind of rugged sexiness that made heat rush between her thighs and reminded her that her sexual engine could still be revved. Unlike her younger self, she wasn’t ashamed to ogle him. She’d come to realize it was part of her skill as an agent. Her mind immediately cataloged a handful of designers that might be interested in his look for a fashion campaign. She also noticed that, in spite of the cut on his left cheek and his slightly crooked nose, he had the kind of bone structure that would make him a great candidate for an endorsement with a sunglasses company. He’d have to shave off the beard, though.

  That’d be a shame, her libido whispered like a devil on her shoulder.

  The important thing was that she knew how to suppress the instincts screaming at her to shut him up by climbing onto his lap, ripping open his shirt, and riding him like a prize stallion. As with everything else in her life, she let her brain guide her. Salinger was a brawler on and off the ice, and there was no way she’d get involved with someone like him—personally or professionally.

  She cleared her throat and leaned forward. “I can’t work with athletes I don’t care for.”

  “You could learn to like me.”

  She scoffed. “You’re a thirty-two-year-old brute defenseman on the last year of your contract, and despite all your accolades, you’ve never won the Stanley Cup. Five days ago, you lost your endorsement with Bauer and your agent dumped you because you got into a fistfight with your teammate during practice. Not just any teammate—Sebastian Liakos, who happens to be a first-draft rookie recently engaged to Alexa Whittaker, the daughter of the Vipers’ owner. Liakos also happens to have the press and the fans wrapped around his finger. Or he did, until you broke that finger by slashing at him with your stick in one of the cheapest moves ever caught on video. And even if the team didn’t suspend you, everyone knows you were the one who threw the first punch.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “Really? Because the media reports of you arguing with Alexa the next morning make it seem like a pretty clear-cut case of a jealous rage to me.”

  “Christ, I was trying to warn her about Liakos. Alexa’s just a kid.”

  At least he had the decency to look horrified by the accusation. “So is Sebastian Liakos. And the public thinks you whaled on a twenty-year-old for no reason other than your out-of-control ego.”

  He shifted in his seat, a scowl forming on his handsome face. “And that’s why I’m here.”

  “There’s no question you’re a great player. Probably one of the best. But you’re like a car on the last year of its warranty, and when it comes time to talk trade deals, it’ll be your sorry behind getting shipped off to one of the expansion teams. One that’ll pay you handsomely but has no hope of ever winning the Cup. Any agent can negotiate a trade deal for you. You don’t need me.”

  “You know your stuff, I’ll give you that. But there’s one thing you’re wrong about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My agent didn’t dump me. I fired him because he said the exact same thing you just did. I know I’ve only got one, maybe two years left in me to win the Cup, but that’s not going to happen if I’m traded to some third-rate team that can’t even score fans, much less goals. I need an agent who understands it’s not about the money. I don’t care if they never pay me another dime. It’s about my love of the game. I thought that’d be you, but I guess I was wrong. I guess you’re not the same girl from the stairwell after all.” He stood up and set his hands on her creaky desk, glaring at her with piercing dark blue eyes like he expected her to flinch.

  She didn’t. At least not physically. Her insides felt like she’d taken a punch to the gut. She’d never expected him to remember.

  But the fact that he could still electrify every nerve in her body with a single look wasn’t the only thing that made her falter. This was the first moment he’d spoken with any kind of passion or given her a reason to think she was anything but a last-ditch effort to salvage his career. And even though she’d vowed never to let money cloud her judgment, she couldn’t deny that a star hockey player like Salinger made ten times more in a year than all of her current clients combined.

  A panorama of opportunities a client like him could offer opened up in her mind. If she could turn his career around, it would legitimatize Nichols Sports Management. The big boys in the league would be forced to finally look past her gender and take her seriously. Most importantly, a client like Salinger would give her the kind of validation she needed to win the upcoming election for a seat on the board of the New York Association of Professional Sports Agents.

  But her existing success was based on three principles. One: never work with arrogant jerks. Two: never work with someone she didn’t trust. And three: never work with someone she’d pictured naked.

  Considering her perpetually single status and her unwholesome appreciation of bad boys, picturing him naked was something she’d done a heck of a lot over the past decade.

  Despite the tightness in her throat, she forced herself to ask one more question. “Why did you beat up Liakos?”

  He stared at her for a long time, a slight tic in his jaw the only movement.

  “It’s not a difficult question. Trust is vital in this business. If we’re going to work together—and I’m not saying I’ve changed my mind—I need to know why you did it.”

  “No.”

  Strike three. “Then this is the end of our conversation.” She didn’t need to ask him to leave. He’d already slammed the door behind him by the time she finished her sentence.

  3

  Nick Salinger unlocked the front door of his condo and immediately considered walking out again. His head was throbbing, and the blaring sound of the reality-TV singing show that greeted him wasn’t going to help. He forced himself to walk inside. He had a six-pack in one hand and a double order of takeout pad thai in the other, and there was no point in letting either go to waste.

  He went straight to the living room to join his brother on the couch. But instead of sitting down and wrestling away the remote, he took one look at Ben’s face and headed to the kitchen to grab a bag of peas from the freezer.

  “Here,” he said, handing the peas over before settling on the couch. Luckily, Ben had already switched the station to the hockey game and turned the volume down a few decibels.

  “I’m fine,” Ben said with a grimace, but he still took the bag and held it against the ugly purple bruise that had lined his left eye for the last few days.

  “You need to take care of yourself.” Nick knew it was pretty much useless to insist Ben keep icing his black eye this long after the initial injury, but it was the only thing Nick could do to keep from feeling h
elpless. Even now there was so much rage twisting inside him like a building hurricane. He’d spent too much of his life feeling useless, unable to protect his little brother from the small-town bullies while he was off in the junior leagues. But the world had supposedly changed since they’d become adults. This kind of shit wasn’t supposed to happen anymore.

  The worst part was that he knew what happened six days ago at McAdam’s Pub wasn’t really about Ben. Liakos had been pouting after an NBC sports reporter commented that Nick was the star of the game that day. Ben had just been an easy target for his jealousy.

  Nick twisted the tops off two bottles and handed one over. They sat in silence until the end of the period, working their way through half the pad thai and the rest of the beer. The bag of peas rested in a puddle on the glass coffee table.

  “Did you get to the MoMA today like you planned?” Nick finally asked when the silence turned awkward over a commercial break.

  Ben shrugged. “Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Nick downed the last of his beer and set the bottle down a little too hard, causing the strident sound of glass on glass to echo through the large space. “It’s not healthy for you to hide out here all day. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but you need to see some daylight or you’re going to get depressed again.”

  Ben set his own beer down with much more delicacy and twisted to face Nick, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine. I swear. In another day, the swelling will be down enough that I can cover the bruise with stage makeup, and then I’ll go out and conquer New York City like I always do. I’m not going to let Sebastian Liakos ruin my Christmas.”

  Nick exhaled, relieved by the confidence in his brother’s tone. It wasn’t the physical injury that bothered him. Ben was tough. It was the internal scars that Nick worried about. Most of the time, his brother was a ball of endless energy, always making people laugh. Ben hadn’t been this quiet since the time Nick found out his seventh-grade teacher sent him home for wearing a pink T-shirt.